Sing Sweet Nightingale
by BiteMeTechie
Summary: There's a reason why Oswald Cobblepot stopped frequenting the opera...


Gotham's high society was known far and wide for its discriminating taste when it came to the arts and various forms of entertainment. The theatre in Gotham was never short of funds; the ballet always had a billionaire or two in the front row…

And the opera…the opera had many benefactors.

Most of them gave their money publicly, huge amounts of it; they were proud of their philanthropy when it came to the fine arts--but the largest contributor to Gotham's Opera House was a man who asked for no fanfare when he gave his yearly donation. All he asked for was anonymity and his very own box for use whenever the mood for an opera struck him.

Opera was a secret weakness of Oswald Cobblepot. One which, had it been known throughout Gotham's underground just how enamored with it he was, his fellow rogues would never let him live it down. He could just imagine the jeers at his expense at the hands of the likes of the Joker…

It was for this reason that he frequented the opera in secret, careful to keep his identity hidden from all those who might make fun of him for his little hobby, and as often as he was at the Iceberg Lounge, he was at the opera house even _more_.

From that box high above the rest of the audience, he watched in fascination as epic battles for queen, country and love were fought with all the grandeur befitting the drama being presented before him and he clapped with as much vigor--if not more--when the performance was through.

French, Italian, English…he watched every opera regardless of the language it was presented in, moved beyond words by the sheer emotion poured into every graceful movement and every song on the stage…

Yes, the Penguin was an opera appreciator, that much was certain.

It went deeper than that once, though…once and only once.

He remembered it so well. It was Pagliacci. Of course, it was always Pagliacci. That was his favorite by far…so naturally it would be during Pagliacci that he would see _her_.

She was a minor player; a soprano who--despite her small part--stole the scenes she was in.

She was not pretty. She was _far_ from pretty. Her cheekbones were far too high and her nose war far too pointed for her to be considered anywhere _near_ traditionally pretty.

But that voice…oh, how it tugged upon his heartstrings, plucking them with all the skill of a professional violinist…

Before the performance ended, Cobblepot knew he'd managed to fall in love from afar quite effectively, much to his chagrin.

If there was one thing that the other criminals of Gotham would ridicule him for more than his love of opera, it would be for his unrequited love for a woman he'd never met…

Besides, what hope had a man like him with someone like her? A woman with the voice of an angel would no more grace his bird like self than she would dive into a frozen river in hopes of getting warm.

But he could love her voice from afar…oh yes. He could and he _did._

Once weekly he sent flowers…but that was as far as his actual contact with her went. He didn't even send a card or so much as a post-it note…

Let her believe the man who admired her enough to send freshly cut Birds of Paradise to her was a tall, dark and dashing millionaire with a mansion and a horde of butlers at his disposal. It was better than the reality of the situation, truly.

Of course, in life, there are many times when there are opportunities that we pass up because of our fears. Fear of rejection, fear of judgment, fear of refusal…

Fear of a broken heart and shattered dreams…

But also in life there are the opportunities that we _wish_ we had taken after we realize that things might have gone differently if we had done as our souls had begged us to.

Such as it was for Oswald. It was a tragic error in judgment on his part that he never gathered enough courage to speak to her…

It was tragic, yes, but it was cruel irony that he managed to miss the one performance at the opera house that was her last.

Firefly…it had been Firefly that had set the place alight. Some trivial pithy thing that had angered him enough to start a fire and kill a living, breathing nightingale in the guise of a woman in the process…

The opera house burned and collapsed like a house of cards with the entire cast inside, her included.

Shortly after, a groundskeeper in one of the smaller cemeteries in the city noticed that once or twice a month, a short, squat little man with a brilliantly colored bouquet stopped by one of the more modest headstones in the graveyard in the dead of night, looking for all the world as though he didn't dare risk being seen and tenderly laid the blooms on the final resting place of someone who was clearly very dear to him.

As for the opera house, they rebuilt it…it took time, but they did it…with the help of many backers--including Oswald himself…

Though he was offered the same arrangement as he'd had before; a private box and the ultimate amount of secrecy as to his identity, the Penguin declined.

Indeed, he never went to the opera again.

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A/N: Check it. Oswald Cobblepot's love of opera? Totally canon. I LOVE that. It just begged me to do something about it. I've been looking for an excuse to continue with my little trend of 'Villains find love and friendship!' that I started with Sack Cloth and Chicken Soup and Crossword Compulsions and Coffee Conundrums, and Penguin gave me the excuse to do so.


End file.
